Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
When the morning was still an infant
Licking the dew in the coming off age
The mammaries of ivory elephants
Rode on the meridian of the cottage.
Caught off side in preliminary gates
The Prodigy of heads laid in the pristine
Caveat of affection deflected from fate
Contracted to throbs of effeminate winston

Hallowed dermis of never goddess splashed
Seduction from immaculate celibate rushed
Out of the venom of vermins ransacked
Without love license hidden by the sacked
Catwalking piece of art carved in the heart
Of the monument standing in ray of enthused cart
Dry Grief in Wet Laughter sonnet trailer2
Distance is an asset
Installed in the heart
Seeking to reach out to affection
Trusting a feeling instead of a value
Accepted from beards in rags
New in words but senile in sight
Committed to the legacy and not the fever
Emitting a light only love can see
Dry Grief in Wet Laughter Trailer1!
Screens and boards kissed after buttons stopped Pushing letters to the foreground of field work

Stretch and Yawns between switches of windows
The dialogue Payne flashed out from the right Kidney to the second liver on he lower left Quadrant of the skeleton flipped into anterior.

When mouse sniffed the cookies mistyped on the software *** on heat, the sizzling of the whiskers
Burnt brown but baked blue beneath baylis and Picked out of the shores of a hot ocean.

No walls of fire, no biogenes in the deck of the Cruise ship gliding on the waves of the seaports.

Properties of pirates stolen from drivers of small ships on the sea sold for an exchange which Moved from the piles accounted for to the lock and load unpacked from workstation to sea bin.
An unkindness draped in black vesture
A parliament endowed with preternatural leisure

When colours christen child birth, temper choses
Superior puissance and inferior visage loses
Home land to New World with cognitive ballistics
Under the cures of light and the chores in plastics

Nightfall is a gene of unkindness as the costume
of mourning as the mood of rigor mortis fumes
on stage behind the scene at the apex of blinks
forced by the irks of grievance splashed by ginx

The soothe of a container on heat for a decade
cannot wipe off the foot prints of locks in arcade

After the seeds of bleeding postures indemnify
the index finger, in the verdict of the nun monify

pressure of twinkle stars in elementary senility

— The End —